Lord Celeborn Kicks Butt, with Style
by Katharine Faith
Summary: The third in the Kicks Butt series. A Sue of questionable parentage makes the mistake of intruding upon Celeborn's melancholy after Galadriel's departure for Valinor. Final edit complete.


**Lord Celeborn Kicks Butt, with Style**

_By Katharine_

_Disclaimer: _The Lord of the Rings_ and all related properties are copyrights of J.R.R. Tolkien, et al. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No infringement is intended._

**Warnings: Rated PG for a bit of violence and a nice death. Hee.**

**This is the third in the _Kicks Butt_ series. The vengeance continues!**

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Lothlórien's aged boughs hung swathed with the night's warm summer mantle. The full moon's argent gleam had washed the Golden Wood to a dreamscape of silver and indigo; deep violet shadows crept beneath the darkened forest awning, shying away from the mithril-hued sheen of exposed mallorn skin. One or two lonely evening birds sang their mournful dirges, sweet and haunting melodies that shivered against every little twig and blossom, blending almost painfully with the low, somber hum of Lórien's insect chorale.

Near the heart of the wood, a small enclosed glade lay flooded with Ithil's radiance. The break in the leaved canopy overhead afforded a stunning view of Elbereth's glittering array in all of its glory, a blazing testimony to the power of the high Lady of the Valar. The solitary figure seated in the center of the clearing, however, had little thought for the moon or stars this night. His posture might have seemed relaxed, even casual, but for the deep melancholy roiling about his long frame. His soft grey over-robe lay pooled by his side, discarded in favor of the silky breeze wafting across his ivory skin.

_When Lórien's grand **mellyrn** shed their green summer cloaks for autumn's gold, then shall I depart this wood for the Havens, and thereafter, for Valinor beyond the Sea…_

The words dripped from gold-tinged branches, from leaves whose hearts remained a valiant green, but whose fringes flaunted the traitorous flaxen hue that had prompted their Lady's departure. Galadriel, the Lady of Light, had turned away from her forest haven at last. Her footsteps no longer graced the Golden Wood's serene depths. She had embarked upon her last journey within Arda's mortal shores, soon to board the white ship of Círdan that would bear her to the Far West, never to return before the unmaking of the world.

Thus, the Lord of Lothlórien lingered in silent, somber repose this night, secluded deep within his realm. Celeborn drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, and released it in a heavy, grieved sigh. He felt the Lady's absence more keenly than any other, mourned her departure more deeply than he would ever divulge. His mind knew that he would join her one day in the green lands of Valinor; yet his heart and soul ached for the years that he knew would pass ere the time of his own leaving.

_The years have never held such import before, nor have I so yearned for their swift passage,_ Celeborn mused, the irony bringing a hint of a sad smile to his lips. He gazed down at the slender graven sword balanced on his knees, his eyes glistening with starlight reflected from its cool blade.

_This is **Nainië****-o-lumbule**, the Lament of Shadow, forged in the great smithies of Fëanor to bring destruction to those who served the Dark One's design, _Galadriel's voice murmured in his sensitive ear, as clearly as though she sat beside him. He could almost feel her breath stirring his hair as her words echoed in his memory. _Long did I wield it in battle, and many were the lives it governed—whether to save or to slay. It is a fine blade, never cracked or bruised by blows. Yet though it shines like the day, the Lament is smirched with death's crimson stain. _Celeborn's brows knitted slightly in remembrance of his beloved's pained tone, so rare in its palpable regret. _I need it no longer. Never again shall my hand deliver death. And perhaps, with time, the hand given over to peace may atone for the blood which stains it._

Celeborn closed his eyes and allowed himself a small smile, as he imagined his Lady as a fierce warrior, her sun-kissed tresses whipping about in a stormy gale, her blade drawn and held high above her head in triumph. Though time and experience had tempered Galadriel's indomitable nature, her spirit had always burned within her like a flame, radiant and strong. Watching her over the years, Celeborn had sometimes wished he could have seen her in her youth, when she alone among the women of the Noldor stood with the princes of her kin and resolved to make the journey to the far-off shores of Middle-earth. If her beauty was a dazzlement in her days of peace, he thought, how astonishing a vision she must have been in the throes of tempest!

_Perhaps I am somewhat to blame,_ he reflected ruefully, one long finger tracing the runes on the length of Galadriel's sword. His beloved Lady had remarked more than once that he brought a calming, balancing force to her sometimes turbulent spirit. _But by the same token, I could never have so loved a woman without such fire in her eyes,_ Celeborn thought, his smile widening with affection. _My shining star, how brightly you set my heart to blaze!_

There was a time when such thoughts would have brought soft laughter in his mind and a gentle caress of her fingers. The time, now past, when the Lady yet walked at his side. When thoughts of her leaving were far away, drowned in the song and serenity of the Golden Wood. But now…there was only silence. A murmuring breeze among the branches, but that was all. Even the evening birds had ceased their melodies, as if they sensed their Lord's melancholy.

The quiet stabbed deeply into Celeborn's aching heart, a cruel reminder of his fiery Lady's parting, and how truly alone in the world he was. The Elven lord rested his hands upon the sword, his silver tresses slipping over his broad shoulders as he bowed his head in a moment of private sorrow. He was briefly surprised to feel the sting of hot tears behind his lashes; and though he did not weep, a slight shudder in his hunched form gave testimony to the terrible grief suddenly welling in his throat. Though the Lord of Lothlórien was not normally one to give himself over to sorrow, he would indulge the pain for just this moment. Telperion would mourn the loss of his Laurelin.

"My lord."

While the intruding voice was soft and lilting, it grated on Celeborn's worn nerves. Truth be told, he was amazed that someone had dared interrupt his solitude; his people knew well that their Lady's departure had taken its toll on their Lord, and that he needed some time to orient himself. However, while he was sorely tempted to snap at the trespasser, he decided that it behooved him to maintain some semblance of discipline, and so he reined in his irritation. "Yes?" he replied, his voice even, if somewhat stressed.

"Forgive my intrusion, my lord. I know this is a difficult time for you. I, too, feel the pain of her leaving."

Celeborn finally lifted his head and fixed a piercing gaze upon the young Elven maiden standing just within the ring of mallorns that enclosed the moon-bathed clearing. It irked him that she had managed to approach without garnering his notice. Furthermore, the maid's almost casual attempt at likening her loss to his own was enough to narrow the Elven lord's eyes a fraction. "You overstep your bounds, young one," he said, no less calm, but with a definite edge to his tone. "If you have come with a concern that does not demand my immediate attention, I suggest that you put it aside for now, and leave me in peace."

The maiden inclined her head apologetically. "Forgive me," she answered, her unusually bright eyes glistening in the moonlight. "I would not have disturbed you if it were not essential that I do so. My time here is short, and I felt I must speak with you ere I leave these shores."

Celeborn lifted one elegant brow. "Indeed," he said reservedly. He was in no mood to make conversation, but if the maiden truly had an immediate need, he would not turn her away. "Then come, young one, tell me your name and what it is that you would so urgently speak of."

She nodded and drew closer, her delicate gown whispering across the darkened grass. Her hair gleamed silver in Ithil's radiant light; whether it was truly the same hue as Celeborn's own, or merely a pale gold, he could not say. Her face held a familiarity that niggled at his memory, but stubbornly refused to resolve itself to his reason. He simply did not recognize her. "My name is Annamarie, my lord," she said, her voice low and strangely musical. "I have come to you on account of my mother, for I would have you know of the deception she cultivated before your very eyes. I will not live with the tarnish of deceit and betrayal on my head any longer."

Celeborn's head tilted slightly to one side, encouraging her to continue. "Who is your mother, young one, and how would her deceit tarnish you in my eyes? I am certain I have never met you before this night."

"You have not, my lord," Annamarie answered, her eyes downcast. "My mother did everything in her power to ensure that we would never meet, and if she were yet present, she would doubtlessly prevent my speaking with you. For my mother…is the Lady Galadriel."

Naturally, Celeborn gave no sign of his startlement save for a rapid blink and an even more pronounced brow arch. "I…see," he said at last. "Tell me, Annamarie, how did you come upon this conclusion?"

"My father told me so," the maiden replied. "I could not doubt him, especially when I saw her for the first time and realized that her face and form were almost a mirror for my own; or rather, my face is a reflection of hers."

And Celeborn abruptly saw it. The familiarity that had been nagging at the back of his mind suddenly coalesced into a logical realization. Annamarie did look very much like Galadriel, from her pale tresses to the delicate yet strong features of her face. Even her bearing and presence were reminiscent of the Lady of Light. Still, there was a fey gleam in her eyes, one that did not belong to Galadriel. "Who was he?" Celeborn heard himself asking, halfway curious, halfway dreading her answer. "Who was your father?"

"My lord, he was Elu Thingol, king of Doriath, your kinsman," the maiden whispered, her gaze riveted to the ground. "He told me, when I grew old enough to understand, that he had long desired the Noldorin princess of golden hair and fiery glance. Even after her marriage to his young kinsman, a quiet forester," and her voice faltered, "my father still looked longingly after Lady Galadriel. One night, though he knew in his heart that his reason was corrupt, he wooed her under the stars, and she accepted his advances. One year later, she gave into his hands a daughter, and told him that she would never again look upon the face of the child, and that their deed was to fade into the mist of memory, forgotten for all time." Annamarie's voice had dropped until she could scarcely be heard. "I am that daughter, my lord. I am the child she hid from your sight, the product of a transgression that she sought to bury in Doriath."

Silence reigned in the glade for what seemed an eternity. The maiden's confession hung heavily in the warm night air, very much like the disconcerting reek of a stagnant, putrefying bog. Celeborn allowed his gaze to drift downward, until the runes engraved in Galadriel's blade resolved themselves once more before his silver eyes. His expression was carefully schooled to dispassion, but his formidable mind churned with many a troubled thought. His Galadriel? His shining star? She who so utterly held his heart in delighted thrall?

_Unfaithful?_

The blade positioned across the Elf lord's knees shone keenly, its blade reflecting the moonlight with such intensity that Celeborn was hard-pressed to stare directly into it. _Very much like the Lady herself,_ he thought wonderingly. As before, he touched his fingertips to the cold silver-kissed surface and slowly traced the runes inscribed into it. They spoke of valor in hardship and purity in purpose.

Purity.

Unfaithful.

_Celeborn…_

The gentle whisper, no more than a mere sigh, brushed across Celeborn's ear. He stiffened imperceptibly, stilling his movements for a moment. His fingers hovered above the surface of Galadriel's sword, not quite touching it. The air around him was resonating with a familiar presence, one that he hadn't felt the likes of since his Lady's leaving. Celeborn lightly stroked the blade once more, and of a sudden, a powerful force leaped to life beneath his hands. He frowned in concentration, gazing down at the shining blade, reaching out with his mind. The weapon throbbed and pulsed against his fingers, and a heated energy washed over Celeborn's spirit.

The sword felt…_outraged._

In all his long centuries, Celeborn had never experienced such a thing. It was as though Galadriel's spirit lingered somehow, thrumming within her millennia-old blade. _Or perhaps her spirit remains in the Wood itself,_ Lothlórien's Lord mused. In any event, Galadriel's presence whispered on the breeze, stirring her husband's heart. Two souls were made one yet again, if only for a brief moment.

Celeborn closed his eyes, and his lips parted in a genuine smile. _My Lady…_

Galadriel's spirit sang to her Lord's heart. Her ancient blade pulsed beneath her Lord's hands. Righteous anger washed over Celeborn's mind and soul, the sheer fury of a woman whose honor had been unjustly called into question.

Annamarie, who had remained silent all throughout Celeborn's introspection, put forth a tentative inquiry when she saw the Lord of the Wood's smile inexplicably brighten. "My Lord?" she asked.

Celeborn's eyes opened, and a faint smile lingered on his face. The gaze he turned upon Annamarie would have frozen the smoldering heart of a Balrog. "Young one, do you truly know of whom you have spoken such ill?" he asked softly.

Annamarie caught a nervous breath. "M-my Lord, I have spoken only what is true—"

"Nay," Celeborn broke in, "you speak falsely. I know not where you have accrued such a deception, but my Lady is and always has been utterly faithful to her vows of marriage. She is faithful…to me." The words warmed his heart through as he spoke them. His fingers closed around the hilt of Galadriel's sword, and it thrummed in agreement with him.

The maiden seemed far more nervous than was fitting. "My Lord, I assure you, I speak truthfully! Galadriel betrayed you! She gave herself to Thingol, and I am their child! This I swear to, upon my own life!"

Celeborn's grip on the Lady's weapon tightened, and he rose abruptly from the ground to glare down at the impertinent maid. "Child, go from my sight at once," he commanded, "and beware of spreading such lies among your kin; it will not go well with you if you should dare such a thing."

Annamarie's gaze was desperate, though she was quite visibly frightened by Celeborn's angry manner. "My Lord, p-please," she whimpered. "Please, denounce this false Lady, and accept me as your child! I cannot find my destiny without your sanction!"

Celeborn frowned at the strange—not to mention _infuriating_—words. He looked deeply into the maiden's eyes then, stretching out with his own formidable will to determine what force drove her so. There was a madness in her gaze, a fey recklessness that did not sit well with him.

He found nothing. She was an empty shell, layered with a thin veneer of purpose and gifted with a facade of beauty and innocent misery. Annamarie was no more than a marionette, a pawn being manipulated by an unseen antagonist.

"I have been warned of such creatures as yourself, Annamarie," Celeborn murmured, narrowing his eyes and stepping closer. His steely gaze held the maiden wholly captive, so that she was incapable of moving of her own will. "Woman-creatures…objects without souls, whose true purpose remains shrouded in darkness and deceit."

"N-no, my Lord," Annamarie whispered, her glistening eyes wide.

Celeborn held his Lady's thrumming blade before the maiden's horrified visage, glaring past its gleaming edge and into the fear-drenched depths of a soulless mind. He presented quite the fearsome specter, bathed in Ithil's gleaming white glory, his silveron eyes molten with carefully controlled vehemence. "You have no place in this world, Annamarie," he told her firmly. "You have intruded upon my Wood, disturbed my peace of mind, and have grievously slandered my lady love—not once, but _three_ times." His gaze hardened. "And so, by my Lady's own blade…" and he raised the sword high, "…you shall exist no more."

Annamarie was given time enough to voice a single, high-pitched shriek, before her doom came howling down upon her in the form of a flashing, rune-graven blade…

_…and far from the Golden Wood, the Lady of Light turned her head ever so slightly, and she smiled…_

_…and the Lord of Lórien smiled in return, his heart lightened once more as he gazed upon the ruined form of the soulless creature once known as Annamarie…_

_…and a simple authoress quirked a nasty grin, pleased beyond words to have heaped such glorious retribution upon such a despicable Sue._

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**Notes:**

We loves Lord Celeborn, yes we do.

Note that the tone of this piece is completely different from that of both of its predecessors. I felt that Celeborn came from a special breed of Elf, and therefore warranted a different approach.

**Fun with Puns:**

The featured Sue's name is Annamarie, a decidedly non-Middle-earthian name.

If, however, one assumes that it is supposed to be a derivation of Quenya, Annamarie could be translated "goodbye gift," from _anna,_ meaning "gift," and _namárië,_ meaning "farewell." Some parting gift, eh? (snicker)


End file.
